by Joe Nobody
Through a genuine, warm smile, Manny replied from the passenger seat, “You earned it Jacob. You worked harder than anybody else on the team. You spent more hours in the weight room, jogged halfway across town at 5 AM every morning, and stayed after practice almost every day to perfect your game. An insecure person could’ve easily thought you were trying to avoid them.”
He laughed, slowing for a traffic light about to turn red. “Now you know better than that, Manny. In the off-season, you were complaining I wouldn’t leave you alone… that I was being a pest. You can’t have it both ways, you know.”
“Sure I can,” she teased. “I’m a girl, and it’s my God-given right to have my cake and eat it, too. Besides, you asked me out four times before I finally gave in. Apparently, you find me attractive for some reason, so I’m going to take advantage of that every chance I get.”
Jacob breathed deeply and exhaled a smooth sigh of satisfaction with his life. His eyes shifted briefly from the traffic signal to the petite sweetheart seated beside him… the contact just long enough for his companion to notice his adoring gaze. Manny made him laugh, and that’s what he liked about her the most. “I suppose,” he breathed. “Well, that… and the fact that you are the hottest girl in the entire school.”
She reached across and playfully smacked his arm, “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Jacob Chase, especially at 1 AM in the morning. Now stop this shameless flirting, and get me home. I’ve got a big biology final tomorrow, and with only a few hours’ sleep, I’ll be lucky to prop my eyelids open long enough to finish the exam. If I mess up my GPA, you’re going to be in trouble, Mister. Not everybody gets a free ride to college, you know.”
Nodding without comment, he carefully accelerated through the now-green light.
His cautious driving wasn’t due to road congestion, their headlights the only pair visible on the entire street at the late hour. Nor was the smitten lad trying to extend their time together.
Jacob was driving like an old man, exercising great caution with his “new baby.” Earlier in the evening, he’d asked the valet if he could straddle two parking spots at the restaurant, wanting to avoid dings from the doors of neighboring cars. While the conservative Honda sedan was three years old, it was the most magnificent gift the young basketball star could have imagined.
Manny’s yawn increased his urgency, but he didn’t dare exceed the speed limit. According to his mother, insurance for a teenage driver was outrageous. “If you get a ticket, we’re going to have to get a second mortgage,” she had warned.
“It won’t be long now,” he informed Manny. “Just a few more miles, and you’ll be snug in your bed. Promise you won’t hate me when the alarm goes off?”
“No,” she giggled. “No promises,” she added with a defiant look.
The radar gun’s digits read “34,” one mile per hour below the posted speed limit. “I wonder what they’re doing wrong,” Jim speculated as he watched the headlights approach. A seasoned veteran, he realized that folks who made incredible efforts to stay within the rules of the road in the wee hours of the morning often had something to hide. Even law-abiding citizens who see empty pavement ahead of them take a few liberties, he told himself. He quickly dismissed the thought, returning to a combination of boredom and apprehension as he deliberated over the entire graveyard shift being a snoozer.
As he watched the vehicle’s low beams approach his hidden position, a wave of frustration began to build, his thoughts returning to Junior’s basketball game. In order to attend the contest, the only taker he could find was a trade for the midnight shift. Despite being a weekend night, it was slow as hell. The game obviously hadn’t been worth the price he was paying now.
More than two hours had passed since he’d signed in, and now the streets were nearly deserted. The small car heading his way carried the first citizen he’d seen in almost ten minutes.
Marwick watched as the non-speeder passed by his position, a streetlight’s pool of illumination making the driver’s profile surprisingly clear.
Big Jim did a double take, something familiar about the kid passing by. His eyes immediately spotted the license plate, a temporary paper tag indicating the operator hadn’t owned the recent model two-door very long.
Inhaling sharply, Big Jim realized who the driver was. His hand immediately reached for the gearshift.
He pulled out behind the little sedan, not entirely sure why. The operator was the player who had bested Junior during the game, and now the little shit was driving around in a recently acquired vehicle. That just rubbed the cop in a wrong way.
“Let’s see how cool you are off the basketball court,” he whispered. “Bet you aren’t as calm with my full court press,” he added.
He accelerated rapidly, taking his squad car up to 50 mph, quickly closing the gap. Just when it appeared that the front bumper’s safety cage was going to slam directly into the temporary tag, he braked hard.
He could see the outline of two heads through the back glass, the shorter figure in the passenger side appearing to be female. “You’ve had your girlfriend out awfully late, young man. I wonder if there’s a date rape involved. A party to celebrate your new trophy? Underage drinking?”
But the three-year old Honda Civic didn’t flinch or react, the driver’s only response being to slow down.
In a way, Jim was disappointed, but not discouraged. He keyed the cruiser’s microphone, “Edward 40.”
The female dispatcher’s voice acknowledged immediately, “Go Edward 40.”
“Traffic, temporary tag, 17 Adam 7331 George 1,” Jim reported, “Suspicious vehicle. Cypress Road, one mile west of Jester.”
It was less than a minute before the dispatcher responded, “No WW, no reports. Registered to one Gabriel William Chase, Green Forest Avenue, Houston.”
Marwick hadn’t expected any “wants” or “warrants,” satisfied that little Mr. Goodie Two Shoes and his Barbie and Ken family wouldn’t dare put an illegal car on the road.
“Clear,” Big Jim replied, his eyes never leaving the taillights ahead.
After another half mile, the Honda slowed even further and then signaled a right-hand turn. Jim followed, entering a residential neighborhood of middle-class homes. He noted the speed limit dropped to 20 mph.
But the kid kept his foot off the pedal, the large red digits of the laser gun never topping 19. “You know I’m back here, you little shit,” Jim hissed. “No matter.”
At the next stop sign, Jim watched eagerly. Having a cop car right up their ass tended to make most drivers a little nervous. The kid didn’t roll the stop, but he still violated the traffic code.
Jim smiled, concluding that the Honda’s front tires had exceeded the white crossing-line by a least a foot. Glancing at the dash cam mounted behind the cruiser’s rearview mirror, he grunted. There was no way the video could clearly record where the driver had stopped.
He reached for the lights and siren.
Like most civilians, the driver’s first reaction was to tap the brakes. That response told Jim the teen had spotted the flashers, proved on the video camera that the operator was aware that a peace officer was initiating a traffic stop.
Instead of pulling over immediately, the Honda kept on driving. Despite it being less than a block since he’d flipped on the lights, Jim keyed the microphone. “Edward 40… Edward 40…. Possible evasion, late model Honda Civic, blue, previous temporary tag, 3800 block of Santa Fe Drive. Requesting additional units.”
“All units, all units, proceed to general vicinity of Santa Fe Drive, three thousand, eight hundred block to assist the officer. Possible evasion.”
The sleepy demeanor vanished immediately from Manny’s face as she cast a quick, frightened glance at Jacob. “What did you do?” she asked without thinking.
“Nothing! At least not that I know of,” he answered, his response equally concerned as he glanced back at the lights in the mirror. “He’s probably just checking us out because of the
temporary tag,” Jacob tried to reassure his date. “This may take a bit, but don’t worry, your house is right up here.”
“You better pull over, right now,” she countered. “Isn’t that what they taught us in Driver’s Ed?”
“It’s only a block or so,” he replied, glancing at the strobe of lights behind them. “He will understand. I mean it is so late; there are no other drivers on the road, and I am driving below the speed limit. We can safely park once we get to your house. That way, you can get to bed. Your mom and dad are probably still waiting up. We’re almost there anyway.”
“I dunno, Jacob,” Manny argued.
“Look. I already switched on the hazard lights and slowed down so he knows I am looking for a place to pull over. The officer will understand. You’ll see.”
Another block passed before the little Honda switched off its emergency flashers and signaled its intent to stop.
Pulling to the curb, Jim rolled up behind, switching on the spotlight, reaching for the door handle, and exiting the squad car as fast as his large frame could pour out the opening.
He unsnapped the safety strap on his sidearm and then drew his flashlight, flipping on the beam and moving it to his off-pistol hand.
All the while, he was stepping toward the Honda. Halfway, he started screaming at the top of his lungs, “Get out of the car! Get out of the car!”
As expected, the driver hesitated, his sensory input completely overloaded by the sudden sequence of unexpected events. Even if the kid had anticipated the command, the officer didn’t give him enough time to respond. The harsh light, barking orders, and aggressive movements all served to freeze the human body while it’s brain tried to digest its environment. The tactic was implemented by design, a commonly used method with which law enforcement used to establish dominance over any suspect.
Officially, as recorded by the dash cam, the citizen had not followed a legal order by a law enforcement officer. It didn’t matter that the command was humanly impossible to execute, and Jim now had reasonable cause to draw his service pistol.
For a split second, Marwick pined for a body camera. The expression on the kid’s face, staring into the barrel of his Smith & Wesson .40 automatic, was a classic. It was a bouquet of uncertainty, confusion, and outright terror, sure to generate a good round of chuckles from his coworkers back at the station.
Still yelling for the nearly-paralyzed driver to exit, Big Jim was a little disappointed when the door popped open, the young man having enough wherewithal to push the opening wider with his leg while his hands remained in the classic, “Don’t shoot” position.
The kid managed to stand with his hands still in the air, evidence of his athletic abilities and coordination.
Jim immediately changed his command and tempo, “Against the vehicle! Turn around! Get against the vehicle!” The staggered, contradicting orders were intentionally delivered in a way to confuse suspects and keep them from initiating any offensive action against the officer. That is exactly what was accomplished. The driver was bewildered, unable to decide which of the officer’s orders to follow.
There was another factor in play, Marwick’s extensive years on the force providing the experience to set his first “tiger trap.”
With the driver’s hands in the air, the motion of turning to face the car as ordered forced his elbow to swing in an arc as he spun. Marwick knew it was coming and stepped into it on purpose, jerking his head back at the last instant to avoid being brushed.
On the squad’s video camera, the “assault” on a police officer was clearly documented. It gave Big Jim all the justification he needed to escalate the encounter and teach the cocky little shit a lesson about life’s true authority.
For a fraction of a second, the cop was disappointed. Some people would drop their hands in order to execute the turn, certain body types unable to spin with their hands in the air. The movement of lowering once-raised hands could easily be interpreted as “making an aggressive move,” or “trying to reach his waistline,” the location where the vast majority of felons stashed weapons. Marwick would have been completely within his rights to shoot the driver right on the spot if he’d made such a gesture.
He let the kid make three quarters of the turn toward the car, and then shoved him hard against the sheet metal. Again, uncontrollable reflexes took over, the young man’s hands dropping to the surface of the hood, attempting to protect his face from the impact of smashing into the solid surface. It wasn’t conscious thought, but on camera, it looked like he was moving his arms to resist.
At that same moment, the first backup car screeched onto the scene, the officer pulling his cruiser up directly behind Jim’s, blocking the middle of the road.
So far, Marwick had the kid on an improper stop, evading a police officer, assault, and resisting arrest. Now that other officers were arriving, it was time to initiate a “pig pile.”
When the driver’s hands moved to prevent the face plant, Jim took a step back and redrew his weapon, screaming, “On the ground! Get on the ground!””
The newly arriving patrolman, completely unaware of what had really just transpired, doubled his pace to assist. He accelerated rapidly, slamming his shoulder into the small of the suspect’s back and taking Jacob to the pavement. From the recent arrival’s perspective, it looked like a brother officer was in danger from a punk kid.
Again, the driver’s survival instinct took over, both of his palms coming forward to break his fall while he turned his face to avoid a nose-crushing impact.
Now there were two voices shouting at the top of their lungs at the utterly bewildered teenager, soon joined by a third and then a fourth officer as responding units poured in, their urgency prompted by the broadcast of an evasion. The fact that it was the shift supervisor involved in the arrest made it all the more urgent.
There is an unwritten law invoked by every police force in the nation – “Run from us, and we have an open license.” Fleeing suspects, especially in motor vehicles, were a nightmare. Multiple cars racing through the streets endangered civilians, police, and property. High-speed chases generated massive adrenaline dumps, frayed nerves, and most importantly, showed a blatant disregard for the officers’ authority. There were few more visible markers of guilt. When the pursuit finally ended, the result was a recipe for disaster – a bunch of edgy cops handling a disrespectful suspect who had broken numerous laws and threatened the police.
The newly arriving officers had no way of knowing if the driver “fighting” with their supervisor had fled for one block or ten miles. They merely recognized that a suspect involved in an altercation with one of their own, and that was enough.
A swarm of blue uniforms rushed to subdue the suspect and make sure none of their brothers was hurt. It was a full-on assault, little different from a charged-up infantry squad taking a hill.
Within seconds, most of the experienced officers sensed that the Honda’s driver was most likely not resisting, the telltale signs obvious to their trained eyes. They were also reasonably sure that the kid lying face down on the pavement wasn’t a threat. Those indicators, however, made little difference as a carefully choreographed sequence of events began to unfold. The suspect had ran, and everybody knew that if the police had to come and get you, they were bringing an ass beating with them.
Policemen were famous for their “gotcha” questions, typically snarled inquiries that offered no good answer. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” was one of the more commonly known gotchas. If the driver responded that he didn’t understand why he had been stopped, then he had little, if any, basis to deny the infraction. After all, if a driver weren’t paying attention, how could he say with certainty that he was not speeding? If the hapless citizen answered, “Yes,” to the officer’s query, then he admitted guilt.
There were also physical “gotchas” that could be implemented during an arrest. The Honda’s driver was about to experience a sequence of these tiger traps.
The f
irst action was often referred to as “the huddle.” Hard lessons had been learned from the advent of internet videos decrying police brutality and abuse, an education hammered home to all cops. The commonality of dash cams, bystander cell phones, and security cameras mounted who-knew-where, were countered by the group of officers surrounding the suspect as if they were a football team calling a play on the field.
With the driver on the ground in the middle of the formation, it was nearly impossible for any video recorder to get a clear view of the proceedings.
The “quarterback” held the most critical position, blocking the one known and most important camera of all – the dashboard video system in the facing cruiser.
Once the picket line of fast-moving, blue-uniformed bodies was established, the kid was subjected to his first body-gotcha. The police wanted the young man’s hands at his lower spine so they could apply handcuffs, but with over 900 pounds of officers on his body, there was no way Jacob could move his arms to comply with their shouted commands.
This led to one of the officers initiating an Academy Award-worthy performance, shouting, “Stop resisting! Stop resisting!” – the command issued more for the benefit of the in-cruiser camera’s audio system than any anticipated response from the suspect.
Finally, the man with his knee in the small of Jacob’s back raised just enough to allow the kid to free his pinned arms, an event which immediately resulted in the second body-gotcha.
Fully anticipated, the kid’s arms wriggled out from under his body, but the liberated limbs couldn’t move to his back. Despite his desperate attempt to comply with the orders screamed at him from all directions, there was a burly cop’s knee on both sides of his rib cage, pinning his appendages tightly to his side.
Of course, the cops knew this would happen, ready with the second round of lines from their theatrical script created for the benefit of the dash cam. “Stop reaching for my weapon! He’s reaching for my weapon!”